Restoration
by Aurumite
Summary: A series of tiny Magvel ficlets, usually revolving around Eirika. Most prompted, some impromptu. #5: Homecoming. Since the night she'd fled Renais, Eirika had a plan.
1. Beloved Daughters

_Note: Soooo I have a ton of Magvel snippets lying around on Tumblr and such and I just wanted to gather all my writings together into one place. I get really antsy otherwise. Indulge me._

 _This one was a little giftlet for merewiowing, because busy weeks + femslash feb = pretty ladies visiting each other after devastating wars to re-grow together._

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 **Chapter One - Beloved Daughters**

"Tell me of your father."

It's not a request. L'Arachel has scarcely begun her tour of Castle Renais but now she plants herself, slim and hard as a young oak, in her tracks. Eirika follows her gaze to the painting of King Fado astride his destrier, gilded sword at his hip and spotted hounds at his feet. Long before his death, he'd taken his place with his forefathers in the great hall. L'Arachel stares at his hands on the reins while her own fingers curl into her pale skirts.

Eirika pauses to collect her thoughts. The memories are still painful, little stones rolling under her heart each time it tries to step forward. She could say that Father was very tall, a splendid horseman, a lover of lively music and dance. But that isn't what L'Arachel wants to know.

"He taught me to ride," she says, "and he took Ephraim hunting every summer. Whenever he went into the city, he returned with sweets for me. Every night, he came to my rooms to tell me goodnight and wish me sweet dreams, no matter how busy he was. I remember sitting on his knee in the throne room when I was very small. And I remember…" A smile comes to her lips for the little gestures so easily forgotten, but her voice wavers. "He used to kiss my hands whenever I did well in my studies or otherwise pleased him. As if I were his ruler and queen, rather than he my father and king."

"Enough."

"Forgive me," she says quickly. L'Arachel doesn't even have the memories. "I've said too much."

"No." L'Arachel sounds hushed, shocked, though her eyes are still locked on Fado. "Forgive _me_. I didn't even bother to ask if you were ready to speak of him."

"It seems that I am."

Eirika moves closer, arm nearly brushing L'Arachel's as she studies the painting alongside her. The silence, first nervous and sharp-edged, fades to comfortable nothing. She reaches for L'Arachel's hand and laces their fingers with slow deliberation.

"He would have loved you very much," she says.

For once, L'Arachel is silent. She lifts their joined hands and holds the back of Eirika's against her cheek for a long moment. It's soft and smooth and cool and Eirika shifts to touch with her palm instead.

"Well," L'Arachel says, finally. Something of her unconquerable smile is back in her eyes. "Of course. How could he not love me? I am as lovable as they come. Now, then, did I not come all this way to enjoy my tour of Renais's historic castle? Let's not loiter."

Eirika smiles too and does not release L'Arachel's hand as she guides her onward.


	2. First Learning

Eirika had seen enough from Innes and Tana to know that young boys sometimes struck their sisters (and young girls, their brothers). It was light, meant to irritate and not cause true pain: a pinch, a smack across the shoulder, a one-handed shove. Siblings quarreled. But Ephraim had never once raised a hand to her. If he touched her at all it was to defend her somehow, wiping tears from her cheek with his thumb or putting a cautious hand on her arm when they walked uneven ground. When their friends once asked if they ever fought, they only exchanged a confused glance and said, _It's like hitting myself._

Which was why now, with the hot pain in her side, Eirika could only stare at Ephraim, unable to connect it to his doing.

It had been their first spar and he'd cut past her defenses in an instant, _laid_ into her with his dulled sword, so hard against her stomach and hip she heard a _whap!_. White flashed across her vision and her ears rang even though her head was untouched. The strike would bruise immediately into a long blue stripe.

He'd done it to her. He'd done it on _purpose_.

"That…that hurt!"

Her voice came out too high, whiny as she fought to make sense of it, and a line appeared in Ephraim's forehead. As the pain began to fade she realized through the faint tickling against her face that she was crying.

"Look," he said, though he lowered his sword. "I told you I wasn't going to take it easy on you."

"I know, but…"

"But nothing." She could see in his eyes that he was sorry, but his voice was firm. "If you want to learn, this is the only way."

He was right, and she knew it deep down. How could she fight to avoid pain or death if she had no idea what it looked like? She wiped her face but glanced back up at him, knowing she was still dewey-eyed.

"You speak the truth. But how could you bear swinging so _hard_ at your littler sister, on her very first day?"

Ephraim laughed, which made the corners of her mouth twitch up, too.

"You can buy all the mercy you like from me, with a face like that, but it won't do you any good. You'll not be fighting brothers if you ever put these lessons to use."

That, too, was true. Eirika looked at the ground and wondered if she'd even be able to take another hit without fleeing or swooning. She was hardy, as hardy as he was, but this was outside anything she'd felt before.

"We don't have to continue," Ephraim said, a little softly. "Battle is rough, Eirika; it's no place for you."

"Plenty of women learn how to fight."

"I said it's no place for _you_. Learning to do this yourself…that's all well and good, but there's no need for it. You have me. I'll protect you if it ever comes to that."

She kept her eyes on the ground, both touched and embarrassed. Ephraim was always her protector, and had never failed her. Did she want to step out of the safety of his shadow? Did she want to hold her own so badly, when she had him to do it for her?

But then, what good was a sister? Couldn't she protect anyone? What if _Ephraim_ needed protecting, someday? Eirika settled back into her stance, ignoring the flash of pain over her hip.

"I'm not giving up," she said. "Come for me again. If last time didn't teach me to parry faster, nothing will."

"You're sure?" he asked, sword still down.

"I'm sure."

"It's going to hurt worse the second time."

"You won't hit me a second time."

Ephraim grinned, saluted, and lunged again. (He did hit her a second time. And a third. But she didn't cry again, and the fourth, she parried away.)


	3. Victory

She hadn't drawn close enough to hear Lyon's last words. It hadn't been her place. She stayed frozen, Sieglinde clutched heavy in her hand, and when Ephraim returned covered in his blood she couldn't look at him and couldn't sheathe it.

She tried to remember what secrets the three of them told each other under the stars in Grado and couldn't. All she could recall were harsh whispers exchanged with Ephraim at ungodly hours, in his tent or hers, hands clutched so hard their knuckles buckled: Don't think about it, we'll find a way, he'll survive, we're going to save him.

As they left the temple, she forced the corners of her lips upward to make it seem like relief had caused their trembling; she was shaking all over despite the gentle warmth of the dappled sun through the canopy. She leaned on Tana because Ephraim's arm was still drying—

"We did it," the soldiers were cheering. They seemed tinny in her ears, intangible as the spirits Knoll had summoned while they rushed to pack up camp, their flags and chipped, painted shields blurring into colours of every shade. She blinked hard but couldn't focus. What would happen to her, the next time she looked up at the stars? "We did it."

"We did it," said Tana softly, and Eirika buried her face in her neck.

"Oh, gods," she choked. "We did."


	4. Coded

"Reckless," Father muttered over his maps.

They covered the round table entirely, dotted with heavy wooden men and painted horses. As a child Eirika once asked to use them as dolls, and Fado had pushed back her hair: _If only, my love._ Now he moved them with slow deliberation, using his large, calloused hands to keep the curling edges of the parchment down. It made Eirika feel safe despite the reports she'd overheard, despite the wooden clusters moving toward the capital. Father's hands could carry anything.

"Please," she begged. "Don't be so hard on him."

"Hard on him," he repeated. "If your brother makes it back alive, I'll thrash him myself. The crown prince of Renais does not simply disappear into the night like a coward. He does not abandon his country when they need to see his face."

It hadn't been hard to deduce that Ephraim's disappearance was his own design. If he were kidnapped they would have received a demand for ransom, and if he were killed Grado's soldiers would be chanting the news as they marched.

"He has good reason to be gone," Eirika insisted.

"Better than seeing to his duties? I think not."

"He's trying to meet with Lyon. I'm sure of it."

Father looked up then. Eirika held his gaze, wondering at the sharpness in his usually soft blue eyes. It was a new look, amidst the concentration and the worry. She finally placed it in a memory of the eyes of a criminal she'd seen judged in the throne room: desperation. Hope.

"He wrote you about it, then?" Father asked. "Ah, that makes sense. That makes perfect sense. He could write absolute nonsense on a page and _you_ would understand it. Send an unmarked message to a general and it's guaranteed to be intercepted, but to a simple handmaiden, perhaps, one who knows where to slip letters to her lady–"

"Father."

The word tumbled out of her throat at barely a whisper. Her eyes stung and she dropped her gaze, remembering the way Ephraim smiled the last time she'd seen him. He had a good smile, warmth and easy reassurance in a flash of straight teeth. It hadn't even occurred to her then that it might be the last she saw.

"Father…he didn't write me. I just…it's my hunch."

Father's face didn't fall so much as it calmed. He looked away.

"Reckless," he said again to his maps. He began to move the wooden horses. Eirika understood little of tactics, but he seemed to want a clear path to Frelia, and his huge shoulders rose to his ears the longer he went without finding it.

She watched him for a long time, wanting to reach for him, knowing he felt as betrayed and as worried as she did. In the end she was too ashamed of the tears on her cheeks, and excused herself to go to the chapel and pray, as a proper lady should during such times.


	5. Homecoming

Since the night she'd fled Renais, Eirika had a plan: become a skilled warrior, reclaim her kingdom, and then—when it was over, and not a moment before—lock herself in her room and sob for hours.

But for a single time, after Renais's stone shattered and Ephraim gave permission, Eirika did not cry during the months of their campaign. It wasn't proper. It was weak, with the army watching her. She would save all her tears for a time of peace and mourn everything then, though the list grew and grew: Father, wise Emperor Vigarde, Orson, Queen Ismaire, Glen and Cormag, noble Selena. For the face Tana made when she told Eirika of Gheb, the moment Joshua beheld his dying mother, the wound Seth still winced against, the innocents she hadn't been able to save, the earthquake waiting for Grado. And then she'd cry for Lyon, and again for Ephraim, who needed it more.

Tears pricked her eyes already when they rode into the capital, as people cheered and tossed wildflowers and reached for their hands. She kept her swimming gaze on the castle and chanted her plan to herself: _Not yet. You must get inside, first. You must lock the door._

Her room, of course, had been one of the first targets for thieves. Gone were her porcelain dolls with real hair, most of her clothes and all of her jewellery, and even the thick blanket stuffed with feathers had been ripped from her bed. The things that remained seemed strange without the rest: a half-empty bottle of perfume and the little romances on her bottom shelf.

Eirika shut the door and locked it. She sat on the edge of her bed. For some reason it felt like it would be too draining to throw herself across it, as she'd imagined she would.

 _It's over. No one will see me here. I can cry for them all, now. I can even cry for myself._

But she couldn't. She sat there and she stared at the wall until she didn't see it any longer, after darkness had fallen completely.

It wasn't hunger pangs for a missed dinner that made her rise, nor concern that she'd sat lost in her head for hours, for she felt neither. Rather, it was the question of whether soaking the crowns in alcohol would damage the metal somehow. They remained, which meant Orson had kept them well, which meant they'd need to be scoured. The coronation was soon.


End file.
